Posts filed under ‘femdom’

Found femdom: Avril Lavigne’s video “Hot”

It’s very subtle, but the hat-and-veil outfit had me wondering. And sure enough, later in the video, she’s brandishing a riding crop. My gaydar is beeping after watching this video and “Girlfriend” back to back, too. It could just be that her marketers have decided to play the lesbo-eroticism-sells-to-men card, but I find it interesting that men are almost completely absent from both videos. The relationship of most importance in “Girlfriend” is actually the competitive one between the two girls. And in a telling gesture, Lavigne plays both roles.

I’ll have to check the Girlfriend is a Homo blog to see if there have been any rumors or paparazzi sightings. I wouldn’t kick her out of bed for eating crackers, although I’d like to see her ass after she’s put a few more carbs back into her diet.

Link to the video on Youtube in case the embed fails

January 10, 2010 at 11:38 am Leave a comment

Rule one of assfucking

“Rule one of assfucking,” he said, “is that it has to come last.”

His belly was covered with his own come. I’d just come back from the bathroom, unhooked the harness, disposed of the condom from the newest addition to my pegging arsenal.* I was feeling pretty pleased with myself, even if he did have to request extra lube. I’d managed to get the damn apparatus on in a pretty reasonable time frame — the leather harness, even, which feels classier even if it is a bit more awkward to put on. And I’d been patient and…

…the feel of my finger in his ass. Hot. Warm. Close. Mine.

His ankles were on my shoulders, and I was leaning over him, trying to be gentle, to be sensitive, to be all the things men are supposed to be when they’re fucking a woman… and his ass, the feel of my being inside of him. Yes. Just as gorgeous as it ever was being inside a woman.

I wanted to fuck him face to face, even if it did feel awkward. I wanted to see his face, feel his skin against mine. I eased the head of my cock inside him, gentle, gentle, sway with the push, with the rhythm, with the in-and-out.

The leather straps around my thighs were loose.

I don’t think I asked him if I could go deeper — he’s always so considerate of that with me — I just pushed. Hoped for the best. His hands were on his cock, mine on either side of his head. Thrusting, regular, gentle now. Barely thrusting any amount of time before he said he was going to to come.

“Do you want to come? Go ahead and come,” I said, shoulders up high above him, hips down low between his legs.

“Oh, can I come?” he said, eyes closed. Face — beautiful agony.

“Yes, come,” I said. “Please come… COME!” And saw him spurt all over his belly, put my hand over his on his cock, wouldn’t let him go, licked his nipple, pushed him through his no’s, pushed him past the initial rush and into the aftershocks. Pushed through no to yes.

Rule number two of assfuckery: If you can’t take a little poop, then you shouldn’t be pegging. This is why latex — gloves and condoms — are as essential a part of assfuckery as lubrication. As is ready access to running water.

He was in no condition to fuck me after that. I do love him fucking me, but it was okay, really. Because I’d been feeling like a bad switch, been feeling like too much of a girly girl. Been going down easy and letting him do all the work. All the fucking.

I think all women should be expected to peg. I think it would give all those I’m-not-a-feminist-but-I-like-to-make-derisive-remarks-about-my-husband bitches some good food for thought. Fucking is hard work. Fucking well, paying attention to the needs and the pleasure of your partner, is even harder work. And men, frankly, even when you’re fucking them, aren’t nearly as demanding as women are. Women’s bodies — mine included — are like high-performance sports cars. They require constant tinkering and more than a touch of intuition to get them working properly. When they do, though, whoa. Men’s bodies respond well to tinkering, too, don’t get me wrong. But the ignition is usually pretty easy to find.

Eventually I broke out the Hitachi, and he and all my stuffed animals watched me moan and wail and mess up the sheets. It was what I wanted at that moment, even more than the burning-flight feel of him inside me, thrusting me into yes. I wanted his head in the crook my shoulder, watching me, admiring and unafraid, as I pushed my body into high gear, pushed it up and out, past no and yes and into pure sound. Into pure… something.

Some distant part of me still shrinks from letting him see me do that. From letting him see the deep and endless capacity for pleasure in my own body. But all he says is “you’re awesome.” All he says, later, is “I liked watching you come.”

And all I can say is… yes.

* I’m not getting paid to say this (I’m not even getting free sex toys for saying it), but I feel the need to tell all you dear readers that the Mistress Silicon Dildo is an excellent step up after the Bend Over Beginner kit. Once you’ve trained your victim’s partner’s sphincter to relax and let you in nice and easily, you’ll quickly become frustrated with the shortcomings of the ol’ fingers and other implements. Now I finally understand why gay men are such size queens! The nice thing about the Mistress, in addition to being the awesome product of a female-owned, sex-positive small business, is that aside from a semi-realistic head, it’s got a nice, medium-width, smooth shaft. Perfect for ass-fucking.

November 3, 2008 at 6:28 pm Leave a comment

Five things, featuring teeth, thigh highs, and my favorite MiP shoots

  1. Teeth.
  2. Met Bran for lunch outside my office today. Pulled up my knee-length skirt to show him the tops of my thigh-highs. I love thigh highs.
  3. I love them so much I’m seriously shopping for a garter belt so that they stop trying to turn into knee-highs.
  4. Teeth. I’m thinking of teeth. Gwen Diamond’s teeth in particular, and what she’s doing with them here. Nothing on this site is SFW, really, but that link, especially.
  5. I unearthed an old cache of pr0n from Men in Pain. Penny Flame has the craziest intensity about her and I love to watch her flog florentine-style. Sandra Romaine has the prettiest, softest, roundest breasts (and ass, come to think of it) I have ever seen popping out of a latex waist cincher. Whenever she says “talk with me” and forces her bottom to crane his or her neck to look her in the eye, I just about cream my panties right then.

    People like to complain about how Men in Pain is all catering-to-men. Which is true. But it caters to me, too. Hot women in latex, hot men in… um, pain. What’s not to like? I just wish they’d show the riggers at work. And the unrolling of the condom. When the camera jumps to a suddenly-sheathed cock and a fully-bound… bondee, it’s weird. l like my pr0n unadr0ned. Although I suppose the fluffers and the riggers would cost more if they appeared on film.

October 20, 2008 at 9:14 pm 1 comment

Absence makes the mind grow dirty

Stupid Bran has some stupid work stupidity that is keeping him from his primary purpose in life, which is to please me.

You would have been so proud of me on Saturday. After dinner I marched myself right off to my car instead of trying to distract him from his work. It was kind of endearing, actually, the way that he couldn’t bring himself to say “you have to leave now.” Instead, he said the other thing that will send anyone with an ounce of social skills out the door: “you can stay as long as you like.”

I’ve been enjoying some solitude. And some quality time with friends, the sunshine, the October colors, and a farmstand or two. My old roommate from Cambridge and I get together once every few weeks and I entertain her with outrageous stories. We both had a big long belly laugh at the offhand comment I made about Ace having an amazingly high tolerance for pain — sometimes I forget there is a whole world of people out there for whom pain is not part of courtship.

Silly people.

Recent coochie conditions have also contributed to a drop in the GOP (Gross Orgasm Product). But the antibiotics have begun to work and I woke this morning thinking about Bran. Specifically, Bran’s body. I began to treat it as a mindfulness exercise; a quiz to gauge the effectiveness of all my hours of study. The surprisingly soft feel of his short-cropped hair, indeterminate color between brown and grey. The crinkle of his eyes. The ski-jump of his nose. The scratch of his cheeks. Slightly irritated gasp he makes when I lick the smooth side of his neck. Moans that happen sometimes when I penetrate his ear with my tongue. Freckles on the shoulders.

The lovely shoulders I could spend hours looking at, touching. Perfect curves of the muscles, the way they bunch and relax. I could sink my teeth into them. Sometimes I do.

Particular scent of his underarms, light dusting of hair. Bran scent, better than anything to be had within a bottle. Simian arms, slightly longer than mine, perfect for climbing trees, walls, ladders. Perfect for twisting my right wrist behind my back and pressing my body to his own. Perfect for binding to the top of the bed.

This is where the fantasy kicks in. What I want to do to him.

I want to do to him.

Not to get even for that time I lay with my knees bent up onto the couch, because getting even implies revenge — and revenge is not something to seek for an enjoyable experience. But reciprocity is important. Keeping the balance of power is important. Equitable distribution and contribution of resources is important. I love laying back and being a pillow queen. And I also love the other thing. I want both/and the vanilla and the chocolate. And strawberry and pralines n’ cream as well.

So this is what I think about at 6:00 am, with both cats crying their early-morning duet of hunger:

He is naked. I am wearing my long black skirt, a turtleneck, brown tights and my brown high boots. I take the belt from my bathrobe and loop it over the hook on the back of my bedroom door, dangle it down the other side of the door. Close the door and make him hold the belt. I don’t tie him in. This is an exercise not in bondage but in discipline. In training. And following orders.

“Don’t let go of the tie,” I say.

With the door shut and his back to it, with his hands grasping the strip of terry cloth, his arms fold above his head. He is naked. Half-erect. It’s a bit chilly for him, but not for me because I am fully clothed. His nipples are two hard points. Because of the cold or because of something else.

He closes his eyes. He doesn’t like to see my face when I hurt him. Why does he think I am going to hurt him?

Maybe because my riding crop, my little red whip with the feathers on the end, and a length of sailing line are lined up on the bookcase behind me.

“Open your eyes,” I say. I am standing right in front of him, my face inches from his. With the lift of my boots, I’m about half an inch taller than he is.

“No,” he says, but in that gasping way, the way he’s been saying it more and more often, which I don’t take seriously.

“Open your eyes,” I repeat. I take his face between my hands. His eyes are bright blue, worried. I kiss him on the lips.

“What do you want?” I ask him.

He doesn’t want to talk. He doesn’t want to tell me. Bran is so much better at communicating without words than me. I know what he wants — or part of it, anyway. I am just tormenting him. Pushing him to the edge of his comfort zone. When he opens his mouth I push my tongue inside it, fuck him with my tongue for a moment. He begins to undulate — this is one of the things I love about Bran, his intense physical response to me. When we are sexual, he moves like a woman, if a woman had a man’s body.

“Hold still,” I say, and place my hands on his hips, which have begun to buck.

I slip a blindfold over his eyes. He doesn’t like it. “It’s okay,” I tell him. “I won’t hurt you.” Much.

I run my fingernails down the outside of his arms and the sides of his torso — gently, to create sensation, not to scratch. His reaction is instantaneous. He’s terribly ticklish.

“Ah-” I say. “Hold still.” In the same voice he uses on me. Daddy voice.

The fantasy dissolves right around here, into some biting, some teasing, as I try to drive him past his discipline. Ultimately I wouldn’t mind him throwing me to the bed and fucking my brains out. But it’s all just sex in the head. It doesn’t even really touch my body. I get up and feed the cats.

October 13, 2008 at 2:53 pm Leave a comment

Naked surprise

He picked me up at the airport when I returned from California, and there was some welcome-back sexing. Which I enjoyed. The rest of the week, though, was too busy for any real quality (aka naked) time. So we made a date for Sunday afternoon, Labor Day weekend.

I’d gotten gussied up for him — one of my new pretty skirts and the fishnet thigh-highs. And the new high-heeled shoes I’d just gotten from Zappos. He came up the stairs with a bouquet of flowers. I love it when he brings me flowers. And when he greets me with a deep, passionate kiss. And while I was putting them in water, he crawled into the kitchen, naked, and began to kiss my feet.

I was surprised, but in that happy way. I felt like a bad top — now that he’s naked and at my feet, what do I do with him? I’ve been a bit of a pillow queen lately. But I did, after all, know what to do.

It involved fingernails, and a thorough polish of my new shoes. And his leash. And some wrestling. And an orgasm or two.

September 12, 2008 at 1:21 pm 2 comments

Spit on my face and tell me that you love me

He was on his back, and we’d both been playing the we’re-not-really-having-sex game. You know, with the kissing and the touching and the getting wound up and pausing and calming down and starting up again.

At one point I brought up the fact that he still hasn’t been for a new HIV test, which probably dampened the mood again. Nothing like discussing risk factors regarding transmission of sexually transmitted diseases to kill the mood.

But it was nice to be next to him in the bed last night, and even talking about why he hasn’t gone to the doctor yet was nice. Sure, it killed the mood for about 10 minutes, but the mood came back. We needed the emotional connection more than the sex. But then there was sex anyway. Sort of. If orgasm counts as sex. Okay, there was sex. Actually, I think I will lose all my femdom cred when I tell you that he came and I didn’t. I didn’t really want to.

What I wanted was to touch him and talk to him and wrestle with him a bit, and pull him by his legs down the bed and push him down and take him in my mouth to hear him gasp, and lick his stomach and the tender joining of his legs to his torso, lick him everywhere, taste the salt of his sweat.

“What am I, a steak?” he said.

He was tasty. I like to taste him.

I also like to push him down and play with him. I like to watch him when he’s excited, when he’s in that other space, when his eyes close and they crinkle at the corners.

I was supposed to leave around 10pm, but time in the snug is relative.

Sometime in that relative time, he was on his back, stroking himself. I was egging him on, and he begged me to spit on his cock. I did.

I used to hate seeing that in porn — people dropping big gobs of spit on each other before doing all sorts of friction-inducing, lubrication-ameliorating things. The phrase “big gobs of spit” is about as mood-killing as “HIV-testing.” When I first saw a man drop a big gob of spit on a woman’s ass right before sinking his cock into it, I was disgusted. It seemed so disrespectful to spit on someone.

But the first time Bran and I messed around, I scooted onto my back and held my breasts up so he could slide his cock in the valley between. And before he placed his cock between my breasts, he leaned down and dropped a big gob of spit on my chest. The feel of his cock, wet and hard, sliding between my breasts, the sound and the feel of him pushing, excited… It felt dirty and intimate and… sweet.

So I spit on his cock and watched him stroke himself harder, faster. I held him down and kissed his face and did things to his chest that made him gasp.

Then he asked me to spit on his chest. Which I did. And then I spit on his face. In his mouth. Repeatedly. Until he came.

It was dirty. And intense. And intimate. And dirty. And loving. And very, very dirty.

July 23, 2008 at 6:12 pm Leave a comment

Orgasm control makes the heart grow fonder

We lay in the heat, the fan whirring cooler air from the evening into the room. I turned off the light and we talked, in the dark, about our families. It was too hot to touch much. It was also late, much later than we’d planned.

Eventually I leaned over and draped my arm across his side, my hand resting right under his belly. I stroked him idly through his boxer shorts, felt him harden in response. He began to undulate his hips and to moan. I slipped my hands under the waistband of his shorts to feel the smooth skin of him, hard now, completely hard. My hand was a bit too dry to properly run it up and down the length of him. I ran my tongue down my palm and returned it to its little nest of fabric and flesh and hair and hotness.

In unison I pulled away and he rolled onto his back, began to work himself, pulling up and down from the top, cupping his head in his palm. His breathing quickened.

“You can’t come,” I said.

“But…” he was plaintive. “But I want to come!”

“You can’t,” I said.

“Please,” he said. “Please let me come.”

“No. You can’t come until Saturday.”

And I pulled his hand away and began to stroke him again.

“Please, I want to come,” he said, begging me, and each time I said, No. No. No. Chanting it while I touched him, while I pulled down his shorts and just kissed the shaft of his cock with my lips, rubbing my cheek and my lips against him — soft skin, hard cock.

“Please.”

“No.”

And I flicked my tongue just beneath his frenulum, kissed him again with closed lips.

Please. No. Please. No. Please. No. Kissing him and teasing him and taunting him, now with him sprawled beneath me and beginning to not be able to speak.

I licked the place where his thigh met his belly, on either side of his cock, and his moans reached a new timbre. Holding his hands to either side, I licked and licked, tasting the salt on his skin, tracing the curve of the underside of his belly, dipping down again to that nexus of him, top and bottom, side and side, nexus genesis paradise. And ran my tongue up his side, to his right nipple, the first place I touched him and made him gasp. He shied away when he felt my tongue flick across it.

“No,” he gasped. “No, I don’t want you to hurt me.”

“I won’t hurt you,” I said. “I’ll be gentle with you tonight.”

“You get so excited,” he said, but I held him down and worked my tongue back and forth over his nipple until he was writhing and moaning, and I was gentle, I didn’t bite once.

“See?” I said.

And did it with his other nipple, stroking his belly and his cock, avoiding his ticklish sides, then licked my way up his chest and his neck and to his ear, where he gasped and moaned in a whole new way when I flicked the tip of my tongue against the little hairs that grow just outside his ear canal.

And I kissed him. Reared up over him in the dark, gently pinned his questing hands up above his head and worked my way down again.

He was bucking his hips. “Hold still,” I said. “Hold still or I’ll stop.” And I opened my mouth then to take all of him in — down to the very back of the throat. The angle was wrong. I couldn’t fit him in as far as I wanted, or maybe he was just extra hard. I swallowed him as far as I could, backed off again, licked him up and down, closed my mouth over the tip and sucked… He kept wanting to buck his hips, but I wouldn’t let him. I pushed him down with my hands and told him, again and again, to keep still. He trembled with the effort not to move.

He was still begging to come, and I was still denying him. “You can do it,” I said. “C’mon. Be a good boy. You’ve done it before.”

“I want to fuck!” he said. “I want to come.”

But I wouldn’t let him.

“Say it. Promise me,” I said, hovering over his face. He pursed his lips shut and screwed up his eyes. “Say it. Say ‘I promise not to come until Saturday.'”

“But…” he started.

“Say it!” I slapped his cheek lightly then, in time to my voice. “Say ‘I promise not to come.'”

“I promise…” he said, and stopped.

I had to drag it out of him, but he promised. And I sent him home still frustrated.

July 1, 2008 at 7:42 pm 4 comments

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